How To Win Friends And Influence People
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: Draco and Ron are stuck in an office at the Ministry, seeking cover from a barrage of spells from their business partner Hermione. FOWL has made a fortune from giving wizards a taste of Muggle technology – if only its founders were equally successful in their personal lives...
1. Ferrets, Otters and Other Critters

**I had a great time writing this – a lot of that was due to my fantastic beta Híril who made the beta process a lot of fun. Thank you very much! This was originally written for the "If The Prompt Fits" fest on Hawthorn & Vine. With apologies for Dale Carnegie for borrowing his title.**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Ferrets, Otters and Other Critters**

 **-oOo-**

"Weasley, will you stop messing around and get those wards _up_? Some of us would like to keep all our limbs."

"If you could ever stop talking, I would have a chance to get something done here." Weasley was sticking his tongue out in an attempt to concentrate on the task at hand. Draco looked at the pink specimen with revolted fascination before he turned away. He preferred not to speculate on where it had been; people had Obliviated themselves for less.

The door shook under another barrage of spells, and Draco took refuge behind the desk.

"Any time now would be fine," he shouted over the flapping of what he could have sworn were wings outside. Despite its many natural advantages, the Ministry of Magic was not a common habitat for birds, so he could only deduce they had been conjured to wreak vengeance upon himself and Weasley.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!" Weasley seemed to have realised his usual glacial speed was not an option. Instead, he cast the incantations with hitherto unsuspected flair. "If you hadn't abandoned your wand, you might have been useful rather than annoying. I'm trying to work here, you know."

"Speaking of which, shouldn't you be focusing on what you're doing?"

Both men winced as a particularly vicious shriek announced a fresh attack.

"I might," Weasley said. "If you ever shut up. Do you ever stop talking?" He finally hit the last part of the protection spells, and there was silence at last.

Draco was stung. "You're obviously not used to people attending to what you say. When I speak, people listen. Frequently with awe, I might add."

"I think you confuse the glazed expression in their eyes with actual interest." Weasley clearly had no idea what passed for conversation among intelligent people, so Draco ignored him. However, he did consider a clarification to be in order:

"I did not abandon my wand. I simply decided it was more important to relocate to a place of relative safety."

"Yeah, yeah. The end result is the same, though: you're as much use as a Doxy in a thunderstorm." Weasley moved around Hermione's office in what Draco had to concede was a purposeful manner, looking for weak spots or potential defensive weapons. He pocketed something Muggle-looking, made of metal. Draco would have liked to get a closer look, but he refused to lower himself by asking. Besides, Weasley likely didn't know what it was either.

" _Au contraire._ " Draco wasn't sure whether Weasley understood French, but he could hardly be expected to reign in his eloquence to cater to the dull-witted. "I'm clearly here to provide the brains of the operation."

There was a choking sound from the corner, and Weasley emerged, spluttering with laughter. "That's a good one, I needed that!"

Draco drew himself up to full height, which irritatingly still left him an inch shorter than Weasley. "I hardly think –"

"Listen, Malfoy. Even you have to admit Hermione is much smarter than you. Were you the one who figured out how to get Muggle electronics to work with magic?"

Regrettably, it hadn't been him, and Draco was forced to concede to Weasley.

"Exactly," the latter replied to his own question. "We all know that you provide the money, Hermione the brains, and me –"

"Do remind me what your contribution is again – I never can remember."

As expected, the sarcasm flew straight over Weasley's head. "I'm here to give you lot some business savvy. Neither of you have any idea how to run a business, let alone a successful one."

Unfortunately, it was true – somehow, Draco's business ventures always seemed to fail, and he could never figure out why. It wasn't until Hermione and Weasley had approached him a year ago, their distaste barely hidden as they went cap in hand to their erstwhile foe, offering him a stake in their joint venture, that things had changed.

At the time, Draco had been torn: on one hand, he had been pleased it had finally dawned on them that the House of Malfoy was (again) a power to be reckoned with in the Wizarding world. On the other hand, he had been itching to pay them back in kind for years of sneering. He had been forced to admit, albeit reluctantly, that Weasley and Granger had got things right where he had got them completely wrong most of the time after fourth year.

That didn't absolve them from being absolute pricks before, though.

"Why don't you ask Potter? He's loaded," Draco had asked instead.

"Harry is a bit busy getting married at the moment," Granger had explained. "He doesn't really have time to start up a company too, in between chasing Dark wizards and choosing thank you cards."

"Also, in case we lose the money, we'd rather it didn't belong to someone we actually care about." Weasley had earned himself an elbow in the ribs for that.

"As I was saying," Granger had continued, glaring daggers at Weasley, "we are looking for a third partner. Ronald will provide the business know-how and I the magical expertise. Also, much as it pains me to admit, you might be helpful in reaching our target market."

"Pure-bloods with more money than sense," Weasley had explained for Draco's benefit.

Draco could see why they needed him; despite his blood status, Weasley still looked like he didn't have two Galleons to rub together. "What is it you're proposing to sell, exactly? I must warn you, Granger – there's not a huge market for house-elf lib merchandise out there. Not even if you knitted it yourself."

Granger had waited patiently until he had finished talking, the expression on her face suggesting she was pandering to a young child who had a bee in its bonnet about something.

"We are offering something unique: Muggle technology carefully adapted to the Wizarding world," she had said, as if that would have made Draco write a cheque right away.

"We're wizards, Granger," he had explained. "We don't _need_ Muggle technology. That is why we have magic."

"Really? Allow me to demonstrate. When you are writing a letter, what do you use to write?"

"A quill?" He did use a quill, didn't he? Having Granger in full crusader mode bearing down upon one was almost as terrifying as being singled out in class by McGonagall.

"That's what I thought. I, on the other hand, use this nifty contraption." She had held up something small and transparent, featuring a blue section in the middle. "This is what we call a 'biro'. Notice how it doesn't require any separate ink: it's all contained inside. Now, watch me write." Conjuring a piece of flimsy-looking paper, she had proceeded to sign her name with flourish. Afterwards, she had pressed the side of her hand against the writing, showing it to Draco. "No smudges, no spillages, and no problem for those allergic to feathers."

"Very good, Granger." Draco had been impressed despite himself. He had rallied, however: "I will tell all my friends. They will be very excited for about 10.4 seconds, before they remember they're not at school anymore and don't have to write three foot essays every week."

"I'm not proposing we start selling biros. It was merely a demonstration that you're completely unaware of an item that is omnipresent in the Muggle world. Doesn't it make you wonder what else you don't know about?"

It did, blast her. Granger must have deduced as much from his expression, because she had ploughed on.

"What we want to do initially is to offer a select, bespoke service, helping wizards and witches access the best Muggle innovations of the past thirty years. The first customers will effectively pay for our research and development. Once we have fine-tuned the products, we can offer them on the open market."

"We'll make a killing," Weasley had added.

Draco had stared at the biro: for some reason he was itching to pick it up and chew on it while he weighed up his decision.

The Malfoys were still wealthy, but considerably less so than they had been before the war. His parents were living in semi-retirement at the Manor while Draco tried to restore the family name (not to mention their erstwhile influence). All of it had required money, however, and so far Draco had proven more adept at spending it than amassing it.

Draco had been forced to admit there was some logic to Granger's plan. He knew exactly the type of people willing to part with a huge pile of Galleons to acquire cutting-edge magic. The Muggle connection would work in their favour – most pure-bloods had a healthy sense of self-preservation, and showing one was at ease with the non-magical population did an awful lot to convince people one truly had left the war behind.

By all accounts, Weasley had been a successful partner in his brother's shop – presumably this was his chance to show he could accomplish something on his own.

Granger was probably content with a chance to show her cleverness. The last Draco had heard, she had been slaving away at the Ministry, insisting on working her way up. Apparently, she hadn't realised that the problem with such an approach was that you actually had to work.

"All right," Draco had said, against his better judgement. "I'm in."

* * *

What had escaped Draco at the time was how the endeavour fit into Granger's wider plans. He had learnt since then that she was almost entirely unmotivated by money, or indeed recognition (she had certainly chosen her Ministry career well); the reasons she did anything were usually as difficult to unravel as any of his Slytherin schemes.

It all made sense once Draco figured that for Hermione Granger, the whole world was a Project, to be improved upon until it reached the state of goodwill to all men and critters she mistakenly believed were on par with humans.

No prejudice was too unimportant, no perceived injustice too small: she wasn't going to rest until she had everything arranged to her satisfaction.

Somewhat frighteningly, neither public scorn, set-backs, nor even basic human nature seemed to deter Granger from her relentless campaign. Sometimes, Draco actually believed she would succeed. If she did, he would be partly responsible. Before their little enterprise took off, she had been constrained by whatever paltry donations she could bully her friends – Potter, really – into and her tiny Ministry stipend.

As co-founder of FOWL, she had become a wealthy woman, able to finance anything from Centaur habitats to lobbying campaigns.

"I don't think naming our company 'foul' is the way to win business, Weasley. Although, 'fair' wouldn't be much better," Draco had said when they were trying to pick a name.

"Fair or foul, perhaps? FOF, for short." Hermione had kept her gaze steady, but there was an infinitesimal suggestion of a blush on her cheek as the other two had stared at her in unison.

"No, Hermione," Weasley had said eventually. "You're banned from ever naming any of our products, as well."

"I concur," Draco slipped in before she had time to say anything. "Two to one – you're outvoted."

"Good. Now we can talk about my suggestion. FOWL stands for Ferret, Otter and Weasel Limited, of course," Weasley explained.

"Absolutely not!" Draco said at the same time as Hermione asked:

"But won't that make it obvious who we are? I'd rather keep it quiet for now."

"Anyone who's willing to spend ten Sickles, two Knut at the Company Registration Office will be able to find out for themselves who owns the company, so I would expect us to appear in the _Daily Prophet_ in about a fortnight. Free publicity, though." Weasley looked a bit more cheerful at the prospect.

"Excuse me, I think you have temporarily gone deaf. Both of you. There is no way we'll be naming this venture FOWL or any variation thereof." Draco was glad the coffee shop they had selected for their meeting was deserted; he didn't want anyone to bandy around Weasley's harebrained suggestions.

"Why not? I think it's an excellent idea," said Granger. She would, of course, being the otter in the equation.

"No, it's not. Next," Draco said, debating whether Unicorn Utilities was too esoteric, or if it hit the right note of almost unobtainable luxury.

"Hang on, Malfoy. You can only veto major financial decisions, you don't get to vote down the name." Weasley was leafing through the newly approved Articles of Association, and Draco realised with a sinking feeling that he was right. It had seemed of utmost importance to safeguard his investment; Draco had failed to consider what running a company with two Gryffindors would entail in practice.

Granger, damn her, had almost certainly drafted the insidious clause 13. "I concur. I also concur with your suggestion: FOWL it is." She patted Draco on the shoulder, which failed to provide him with any consolation whatsoever. "No one has to find out that the 'F' stands for ferret. And Ron did call himself a weasel, so I think that's fair."

"Funny when you think about it," Weasley said. "Otters, weasels and ferrets aren't exactly a million miles from each other. Small, furry, and with sharp teeth."

"Weasels and ferrets are quite closely related," Granger, the walking textbook, informed them. "Otters are mainly aquatic, but they're still members of the same family."

"There you are, then. Only, my Patronus happens to be a terrier, so it's the two of you that are spiritually linked."

Draco's ability to speak had finally returned. "I do not have a special affinity with ferrets!"

"I don't know, it looked like a natural transition to me. What's your Patronus, then?"

It was always galling to admit his limitations, but Weasley mastering an advanced form of magic, where Draco had failed despite all his efforts, made it sting even worse. "I don't know," he mumbled.

"Ron," Granger said, elbowing him in a would-be discreet manner. Granger being considerate was the final nail in the coffin.

"I don't know how to cast a bloody Patronus because I was a bit preoccupied making sure my family survived the war, all right? They weren't exactly part of the Death Eater curriculum."

"That's fi–" Granger tried to say, but Draco wasn't anywhere near done yet.

"No, it's not fucking fine, is it? I still can't work for the Ministry of Magic or run for public office ever, and little kids actually run and hide if they catch a glimpse of my ever so tasteful tattoo. The only reason I even agreed to meet with the two of you in the first place was that you're war heroes. If you fought on the wrong side, people would rather spit at you than give you as much as a Knut, not matter how good your products."

Draco wasn't exactly on the breadline, but Theo and some other friends had doggedly tried and failed to make a living since their abrupt exit from Hogwarts.

"I'm not saying that's how it should be." Weasley had clearly nominated Granger to respond on his behalf, and she picked her words carefully. "I do think there should be a statute of limitations on the restrictions for Ministry employment, especially for people who were underage when they took the Dark Mark. But do you really think we would be having this discussion if your side had won?"

"Well, I don't think there would have been any demand for adapted Muggle products," Draco replied without thinking, and got a look from Granger in return that should have scorched his eyebrows off.

"I'm trying very hard not to ask what you thought would happen after the war – did you expect an Order of Merlin? Your situation might be less than ideal, but you survived. Your family survived. Thanks to Harry, you're at liberty and still have your fortune. I don't think I would have been in the same position if Dumbledore had got even one of his wild guesses wrong, do you?"

"No," Draco admitted. He usually avoided thinking about what would have happened if the other side had won the war, except when he was waking up from a nightmare.

"I'll teach you," Weasley said, and the other two looked at him as if he had two heads. "I'll teach you how to cast a Patronus, if you want. And if it actually is a ferret, you have to take out a full-page ad in the _Daily Prophet_ saying 'Weasley is our king'."

* * *

 **This story is complete in five chapters and will be updated every Saturday(ish).**


	2. Down And Out In Clevedon

**Chapter 2**

 **Down And Out In Clevedon**

 **-oOo-**

Draco didn't take out an ad in the _Daily Prophet_ saying 'Weasley is our king'. He didn't even take Weasley up on his offer to teach him to cast a Patronus. He had tried and failed to produce a one before and had no desire to explain the tarnished state of his soul to Weasley. Mostly he tried not to think about it, but as he got more closely acquainted with Granger it became more and more difficult.

After a brief stint as an Auror, Weasley had started running Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes with his brother, his surname apparently constituting all the qualifications required. Weasley did his work for FOWL during quiet periods in the shop, conveniently reducing any contact with Draco to a minimum.

He wasn't so lucky with Granger. She insisted they rented a warehouse with a small office to store the Muggle paraphernalia she would be working on, summoning Draco to test her modifications despite his objections.

"It's Friday night, Granger. Somewhere, there is an enormous glass of gin and tonic with my name on it, never mind the sulky blonde opposite waiting forlornly for the man of her dreams to appear."

"My heart bleeds," she mumbled, trying out an incantation. "Press that button."

Nothing happened.

"Normal people stop working at three o'clock on Fridays, Granger. Why do you have to be the freak that keeps on going?"

"How would you know? As far as I know, you have never had a job in your life." She prodded something at the back. They both jumped as the device suddenly sprang into life and belted out music so loud people in the next county would hear it. Granger quickly adjusted a dial downwards and it reached more bearable volume.

"Observation. I assume you haven't personally visited all pure-blood dwellings in Britain to establish they don't already have a – a –"

"'CD player' is the word you're looking for. And I seriously doubt any of them have a magically modified one. Watch this." She snapped her fingers, and the energetic beats suddenly turned into a soft violin concerto.

"Much nicer – it was giving me a headache at first."

"I'm not concerned about your head, Malfoy. I used magic to switch stations – I didn't even have to use my wand."

"So what? You can do that on the wireless too." Draco looked around for something more interesting, but, true to form, Granger had brought along a heap of dusty books and not much else.

"Of course you can. You may notice, however, that the music is not the same as on the Wizarding Wireless Network. This is Muggle radio."

He spotted something on the floor and stretched his hand out to pick it up.

"Don't touch that!" Granger said at the same time as he was pushed away by an invisible force, accelerating until he hit the wall with a blow that knocked the air out of him.

* * *

The ceiling above him was a sickly yellowish colour, and the damp spots suggested a much less salubrious environment than Draco usually frequented.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly.

"Clevedon," a voice he identified as Granger's said in an unsympathetic voice, as if he hadn't just had a brush with Death. "Same place as you were five minutes ago."

Draco roused himself partially on his elbow, taking care to move slowly to avoid a relapse. "You could show a bit more concern – I was almost killed!"

"Nonsense. I've run a full batch of diagnostic charms and you only have a few bruises – or you will have tomorrow, rather. Maybe that will teach you I mean it when I ask you not to touch something."

"With an attitude like that, I can see why you didn't make any friends at school." Draco glared at the offending article on the floor – it was black, with a lot of small, colourful buttons. It didn't look like it was about to viciously attack anyone who dared to disobey Granger's instructions.

"I did, actually – that's why we're here. If I hadn't, chances are you'd be out celebrating pure-blood supremacy somewhere."

Draco shuddered unwillingly. Fortunately, Granger was absorbed by the back of the Muggle cee dee player, or she would have noticed his lack of adherence to the Malfoy code of conduct. "I'm pretty certain I wouldn't be in Clevedon, at any rate."

"Possibly. Would Milton Keynes really have been that much of an improvement?"

* * *

It took until the following week for Draco to spot the weak line in Granger's reasoning. Summoned to another late test session, it finally dawned on him.

"What's so great about Muggle radio, anyway?" He was still trying to alleviate his boredom by inspecting the contents of the room, but this time he gave any devices a wide berth, however innocent they may have looked.

"Are you joking?" Granger actually stopped working for a moment. "Everyone knows wizarding music is rubbish."

"What?" Draco had no need to feign his outrage.

"Well-known fact. Why else do you think students keep trying to smuggle their Muggle technology into Hogwarts, only to have it break when they try to use it? It's because the wizarding equivalent is shite."

"I didn't even think you knew words like 'shite'."

"In this case, I agree with Seamus – it's the only word that adequately conveys how atrocious it is."

"Now you're starting to sound more like yourself. Never use words with one syllable when three will do."

"I notice you haven't addressed the core of my argument." Granger fiddled with something that looked innocuous, but Draco refused to be fooled again. If he tried to touch it, it would probably fill his boots with frogs or something.

"Remind me what it was, again?" He knew his airy tone would irritate her, and allowed himself a well-earned smirk as the line of Hermione's jaw tightened visibly.

"Muggle music far outperforms the wizarding kind, mainly because it isn't forced to rely on a talent pool the size of Watford. Have you never listened to any?"

Draco gave the matter earnest consideration, for about four and a half seconds. "No. Where would I have heard it, in the Slytherin common room?"

"Perhaps. I've never been there, so I wouldn't know. Maybe you partied to Queen every night."

Draco opened his mouth to correct her – the Queen was Muggle, didn't she know that? –but Hermione pre-empted him (it was quickly becoming the story of his life):

"I'm reasonably sure you didn't – that's what we call a logical conclusion, which is as rare in the wizarding world as a reasonably competent musician. Let's listen to this, shall we?" She pressed a few buttons, seemingly at random, and Draco almost fell backwards at the explosion of sound she unleashed. "SORRY! I'LL TURN IT down a tad, shall I?"

Draco was stunned – at first by the volume, then by the... thickness of the sound, for want of a better word. It started out slow, then the song went crazy – the sound seemed to come from different directions, several voices locked in a debate about someone's life. Or his soul, perhaps – Beelzebub was definitely mentioned.

It took him a minute to recover before he could ask: "What _was_ that?"

"Did you like it?" Trust Granger never to deliver a straight answer.

"I don't know." Draco still felt like he had been hit by a Hippogriff. "So what happens at the end – does he get away or what?"

"I don't know – I wouldn't think so. He killed a man, after all. Muggles tend to be a bit more fussy about these things than wizards."

"Was that why you played it to me? To convince me of the moral superiority of Muggles?" Draco should have been overjoyed that her famous intelligence had been overestimated, but he just felt fed up.

"No, it happened to be on the CD I borrowed from my dad's car last week, to test my spells. We can listen to the next song if you don't believe me."

"Fine." Draco still didn't quite believe her – what was a cee dee, anyway?

They listened to 'Another One Bites The Dust' in silence.

"Bit different, wasn't it?"

"The Muggles don't seem to have too much of a problem with killing each other all of a sudden," Draco pointed out.

Granger actually laughed. "I never thought about the lyrics before, but you're right – Queen do seem quite fixated with murder. Want to listen to the next one, too?"

As soon as the chorus kicked off, Draco crooked his eyebrow at Granger.

"I know, I know – I do think 'Killer Queen' is meant figuratively, though, but I realise how it sounds. I couldn't have picked a worse album, could I?"

Draco turned over the little rectangular box in his hand. The four men on it didn't exactly look like queens to him, but maybe Muggles did things differently in that regard too. "I don't know," he said. "It says Greatest Hits here – I think they're pretty great."

Hermione beamed at him, a wide grin with no reserve whatsoever, and Draco felt the corners of his mouth twitch instinctively in response.

* * *

In retrospect, that was when the rot had set in.

Listening to Muggle music with Granger had led to talking about music with Granger, which had ended up with them debating anything between the superiority of Muggle poetry ("'A wand is a handy thing/It can make a mouse into a king' is not poetry, Draco." "But it rhymes!" "I rest my case.") to the fickleness of human memory ("Blaise did so have a tail! He came back from the Christmas holidays with it in third year, and he insisted on keeping it for a few weeks before he let Pomfrey remove it." "I was sitting next to him in Charms. I think I would have noticed." "Hardly. You would have had to actually look away from the teacher to do that.").

Draco still couldn't quite figure out how they had gone from trading insults in a Muggle warehouse to the current impasse. Hiding out with Weasley in Hermione's office at the Ministry was not where he had imagined their partnership would end up.

"Do you think she's stopped?" he asked, realising the floor hadn't shaken beneath them for a few minutes.

"Nah. She's probably rethinking her strategy – she knows I'm good with wards." Weasley looked intently at a corner at the far end of the room, like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse.

Draco preferred not to dwell on the fact that his continued survival depended on Weasley's ability to get the better of Hermione in a fight. Instead, he tried to pinpoint the moment it had gone so wrong.

* * *

"I'm supposed to meet up with Seamus and Neville in half an hour – couldn't this wait until tomorrow?" Weasley had wound his garish scarf closer around his neck. The warehouse had been freezing, and his flimsy parka offered little warmth.

Draco had been more sensibly dressed in thick, woollen robes – unlike Weasley, he had learnt a thing or two after seven years in a stone cold castle. "See, Granger – it's not just me who wants to have a bit of a life on Friday nights."

"Shut up, both of you," Hermione had said absently as she Levitated something from the back room with great care. "I might remind you that I have a job that actually requires me to be in the office during normal working hours. Despite working long hours, however, I have managed to produce... this." had She lowered the black contraption until it landed with a solid 'thud' on the floor.

"Fabulous. A box. Can we leave now?" Draco had already been eyeing the exit.

Weasley, the show-off, had inspected it. "Is that a window? Only you can't see anything because it has three solid sides to it…"

Hermione had taken a deep breath, and both men froze as she exhaled slowly. "No, Ronald. It's not a window. Do you remember any of the dozens of times you have been to my parents' house? The TV must have been on at some point, surely."

"The tee vee?"

Only his own ignorance of what the term meant kept Draco from pointing out that Weasley looked even more like a Flobberworm than usual.

"The television, with the pretty pictures. Let me show you." She pointed her wand at the box, and the window lit up. It was green, with little men dressed in red and blue running around. "Brilliant," she sighed. "The footie – just what I needed."

"I do remember it," Weasley said slowly. "But there was some bint going on about cooking on your parents' one..."

"It was a different program – it's just like the Wizarding Wireless, only with pictures." Now that she mentioned it, Draco could hear a voice in the background: "That's a free kick, and the supporters are not happy about it. Let's see if Higgins can change the score –" A roar from the crowd drowned out the voice, who came back with a vengeance: "2-1! Everton are one up as we head into the eighty-fifth minute –"

"I recognise this – you said it was like Quidditch for Muggles!" The others turned around to stare at Draco, who was having his own epiphany. "It's shite! They don't even fly."

"Where in the name of Merlin did you come across football before?" Weasley got in first, while Hermione recovered from the shock.

"In the park in Clevedon. We went to the chipper and passed some kids playing in the park. I thought they just weren't allowed to bring their brooms out on their own or something..." In retrospect, Draco should have recalled that Muggles didn't fly on brooms.

The other two exchanged a look, as if Draco had asked why they hadn't just killed the Dark Lord first and worried about the Horcruxes later. Maybe Draco had missed something. "This is all there is to it, right? They run around on the grass, kicking the ball around?"

"Essentially, yes. While getting paid large amounts of money to do so, if it makes any difference."

Draco considered it. "Not really."

"This –" Weasley gesticulated at the miniature men on the screen, one of whom had taken a fall. It must have been quite a bad one, judging by the way he was rolling around on the ground in agony. "This is the Muggle equivalent to Quidditch, and you still _don't like_ Quidditch? What's wrong with you?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Chasing a ball, chasing a Snitch – is there really much of a difference? I prefer to do something rather than watch, in any case. Like groundbreaking research and development, as I have done here, in case the two of you stop watching the bloody football and pay attention to the bigger picture for a second."

Draco and Weasley turned their eyes away from the screen, with its strangely addictive movements forwards and backwards on the grass, and looked at Hermione instead.

"This little machine allows a witch or wizard to tap into the Muggle terrestrial TV network in a magical environment, without causing a fire hazard or breaking the Statute of Secrecy. As an additional bonus, they will not be required to pay for a TV licence either, which is fortunate as we will charge quite an extortionate amount for it."

"What is it called?" Weasley asked at the same time as Draco registered what she had said previously:

"Wait a minute – I was working on it as well!"

"Really, Malfoy – as far as I recall you were mostly whinging about wanting to go off somewhere else. I must have missed all the work you put in while I wasn't looking."

"It doesn't matter – I'm sure our boy here was about as much use as a chocolate wand, but he's about to prove his worth." Weasley stroked his chin, temporarily improving his appearance by hiding at least some of the freckles.

"I'm supposed to tell all my friends what a fabulous invention it is, aren't I?" Draco just hoped he wouldn't be reduced to a social pariah in the attempt.

"I'm sure you can be more creative than that – don't Slytherins aspire to being masters of subtlety?" Hermione arched her eyebrows – both of them, of course. She was about as subtle as a brick.

"It's not hard, is it? Just throw a party for all your poncy friends and put it on in the background. Sooner or later someone will realise it's not a charmed photo, and you can just drop it into the conversation."

Hermione and Draco stared at Weasley in what could have passed for mutual admiration. In dim light.

"Who do you think does all the marketing at WWW? George barely leaves the lab these days, what with –" Weasley looked down, and Draco pretended not to notice Hermione stretching out to touch his hand briefly before they launched into the finer details of their marketing plan, most of which seemed to involve Draco awkwardly dropping facts into perfectly innocuous conversations.


	3. That's What Friends Are For

**Chapter 3**

 **That's What Friends Are For**

 **-oOo-**

The memory of Hermione's fingers touching Weasley's freckled hand lingered in Draco's mind long after he had shed the dust from the warehouse from the hem of his robes.

He didn't know what they were to each other, Weasley and Granger, but any fool could see they had common language beyond words, shaped by decades of running around behind Potter.

Draco would like to have an understanding like that with someone (preferably without having to consort with Potter in the process) – to have just one person who would understand him, and not throw his war record back in his face, telling him he deserved everything he got because he had picked the wrong side.

What side did they expect him to have picked?

The sullen defeatism of his fellow Slytherins was no better. They mostly kept their heads down and tried to get on with things, convinced that Draco had got off lightly, his fall from grace cushioned by Potter's determined forgiveness and the Malfoy fortune.

Complaints would get short shrift.

Even if they had been a more sympathetic lot, he didn't have the sort of relationship with anyone where things could be left unspoken, but not unsaid. He had never had; at Hogwarts, he had preferred to spend time with Greg and Vince, who could be relied upon to follow his lead, until it had been too late and his impossible task had erected a wall between him and the others.

They had remained children while he had been forced to grow up, and once they had caught up with him, Draco had already come out on the other side of his short-lived, Death Eater fervour.

Blaise was his friend, but the sort of friend you keep at an arm's length because he was too clever for his own good. He had grown too like his mother for Draco's liking, always looking for what was in it for him. With Blaise, everything was a business transaction, rather than the relaxed flow of give and take between Hermione and her friends.

Pansy had decided Draco would make an acceptable husband before they even started Hogwarts; if he recalled correctly, she had staked her claim in their dancing classes, in between learning to waltz and following the intricate steps of the minuet. Give Pansy an inch and she would take a mile – a hint of weakness and she would zone in like a piranha. If she had discovered what Draco really had been up to during sixth year, she would have emerged triumphantly with a diamond ring the size of a duck's egg from the disaster at the end.

Seeking support from Pansy was like confiding in Rita Skeeter.

As for making new friends – who did he think he was, Harry Potter?

Draco had enough money to aspire to a place in wizarding society once the recent past had become a little less recent, but he would not trust new acquaintances as far as he could throw them.

People from the other three houses that he had gone to school with hated his guts. The ex-Voldemort supporters among Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs certainly kept it quiet and would not welcome the reminder of their former allegiance, while Gryffindors could do no wrong so any examples to the contrary had swiftly been written out of history.

Draco had heard of the idea of school reunions from one of the programs on Hermione's television, but he didn't think it would catch on in the Wizarding World. Muggles infrequently fought to kill, in his limited experience; a Hogwarts reunion would be too close to a re-enactment of the Battle of Hogwarts for his liking.

Draco sighed and swallowed the last bit of his elf-made wine.

His mother would be deeply concerned if she found out he was drinking alone (which was why Draco had an Arrangement with the house-elves). Given the lack of drinking companions at his disposal, it was not entirely clear what she expected him to do. Perhaps he should marry Pansy and be done with it.

No, wait, didn't he read somewhere that she had a new boyfriend?

Some rummaging later, a rather red-faced Draco (he probably shouldn't have finished the bottle) triumphantly Summoned last week's _Prophet_ , featuring a photo of Pansy and someone tall, dark and unsightly. Draco had seen that profile before – bright lights kept flashing in his memory – but he couldn't place it until he read the caption:

 _Miss Parkinson's new beau is no stranger to these shores. Viktor Krum has made it his business to bring quality Quidditch supplies to Britain, but perhaps he is hoping to catch more than a Snitch this time? He was spotted leaving a Hogsmeade establishment after heartily embracing the fashionable Miss Pansy Parkinson, ex-student of nearby Hogwarts._

Viktor Krum. He had aged, much more than Pansy and Draco, and the latter remembered Krum had been a seventh-year when they were only fifth-years.

Somehow, he had never pictured Pansy with a foreigner – she was sniffy even about people from Wales. Of course, Krum was a wealthy, world-famous Quidditch player; that ought to sweeten the pill somewhat. Unlike Draco, he hadn't been caught on the losing side of the war –

The memory hit with such force Draco had to clutch his desk for support. Krum had been _there –_ there being someplace south of Birmingham, during Draco's first week as a Death Eater. While he had been volunteering for missions, rather than seizing on any excuse he could find.

There had been a bar – no, a nightclub. The lights had kept flashing on and off, and the music had played on while they had torn through the place, looking for Sirius Black.

He hadn't been there. Quite a few Muggles had, and some of them didn't make it out.

Krum had been visiting a friend – Adrian Pucey, probably – and joined in, a bit like a tourist showing up at a local celebration. It hadn't taken him long to shed his inhibitions and partake like a true Death Eater. Draco had recognised the smug little smile on Krum's face as his wand tore a crimson path through the crowd.

His aunt Bella's smile – the face of someone who didn't care about suffering, as long as it was endured by somebody else. Their delight in the power of inflicting pain had little to do with the victim, and everything to do with their twisted souls. And Draco had been wearing the brand of the most twisted of them all on his left arm.

He had promptly thrown up in a corner, right where an unsuspecting Muggle couple had been trying to consummate their relationship, and had missed most of the remaining slaughter. Krum had turned away, showing the same profile as he was brandishing in the _Daily Prophet_ more than ten years later, only without grey hair around his temples.

Fuck.

Draco decided he had to tell Pansy, only to immediately reconsider. Did it really matter to her that Krum got a kick out of hurting Muggles? Being a full-time member of Voldemort's squad hadn't made a difference when it came to her willingness to marry Draco, had it?

He managed to ignore the little voice reminding him he knew perfectly well it was different all through his second bottle of wine, until he found himself leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk. It wasn't very comfortable, but if he left the study he was guaranteed to run into his mother, who was certain to have plenty of things to say about his dissolute habits.

At the age of twenty-nine, Draco rather thought he had outgrown parental scoldings; he wished his parents agreed with him.

Stuck in his own domain, he sought refuge in books and other paraphernalia until he got too drunk to read and had to face the truth. It wasn't the same, because Pansy knew very well Draco had been a useless Death Eater. Draco knew something about Krum that she did not, and he would simply have to tell her.

He sighed and reached for a third bottle. Getting completely shit-faced would take the edge off for tonight, but tomorrow he would have to find a way to tell Pansy something she would not want to hear – people had lost limbs for less.

* * *

Draco instinctively turned himself sideways towards Pansy, to present less of a target. He managed not to flinch when she pulled her lipstick out of her bag instead of her wand.

"Why are you telling me this, Draco? Who cares what happened in a Muggle tearoom in – in - "

"Birmingham," he supplied wearily. "And it wasn't a tearoom –"

"But what has it got to do with _me_?" Pansy flicked her hair, and Draco couldn't decide whether to be relieved or anxious. He had delivered his warning, but he may as well have been talking to a brick wall.

When he was taking his leave after listening to her stories on her favourite subject – Pansy – for half an hour, she took Draco by surprise:

"It's nice of you to warn me, I suppose." She tilted her head at him, in a pose he recognised from school – she had practised using her most flattering angle every day. "You can be sweet sometimes, despite being a complete sap."

Well, at least her assessment agreed with his own.

Draco Apparated home and took out his frustrations by giving the wall a good kick, which unfortunately alerted his mother to his return. It took several minutes to mollify her, by which time Draco was ready to bang his head against the wall instead. Without thinking, he spun around to Apparate again, and it was only when he was already stumbling across the concrete floor that he realised he had chosen the Clevedon warehouse as his destination.

"Morning, Malfoy. Didn't think I'd catch you coming here on a Saturday."

Of course Hermione would be there – she had probably gone there straight away after another all-night stint at the Ministry.

"I thought this place would have one advantage over Malfoy Manor, but it appears I was mistaken."

"Well, your mum isn't here, so I guess that's something," she said absently as she threw a diagnostic charm at a black rectangle.

"How do you know I was talking about my mother?" Draco scrambled to remember what little Legilimency he had learnt, but then he realised Hermione wasn't even looking at him.

"It's what we call a deduction, _Sherlock_. Your father doesn't strike me as a fussy type, and I doubt the house-elves are allowed to harass their young master."

"My name is not Sherlock," Draco pointed out, preferring not to address the fact that she had been right about everything else.

"Why don't you try making a deduction of your own? It's not that hard – I'll give you a clue if you get stuck. Why am I here?"

Draco looked at Hermione doing something menial to an array of cardboard boxes. "You're getting the shipments ready for Monday?"

"Correct – ten points to Slytherin. Why don't you roll up your sleeves and help me now that you're here, seeing as you apparently aren't as busy as you claimed to be?" There was a distinct impression the sharp end of her wand would figure in the near future if he tried to slip away, so Draco did as he was told.

"Listen, Hermione – can I ask you something?" It was ridiculously difficult to force the square _somethings_ into cardboard boxes – Draco snagged his nail on the edge of one before he figured out the trick was to let them slide in slowly, guiding their way.

"You just did." She sighed at his glare. "Go on, then."

"Would you – If your friend should really listen to what you told them, but doesn't, would you do something about it? Even if they said it was fine."

"The story of my life," Hermione mumbled as she wrapped sellotape – the Muggle version – around one of the boxes. "Speaking as a veteran of telling my friends not to do the daft things they're always determined to do, it won't make much difference. It's possible it will set your mind at rest, I suppose."

"So what do you do, then?" Draco asked plaintively. Considering that Granger had been best friends with Potter and Weasley for almost two decades, he had expected more tangible advice.

"A Full Body-Bind Curse works, but only temporarily. Or so I'm told." Hermione hammered her fist on the box to jam the lid shut, satisfied with her handiwork.

She turned around and picked up another, giving Draco a nasty shock; he hadn't realised there were bloody hundreds of them. "If there's anything I've learnt over the years, it's that you have to let people make their own mistakes. I told Ron at least a dozen times nothing good would come from ignoring the ethics of trading with the goblins, and look what came of it. At least they can afford the fine."

"But that's Weasley – he's as pigheaded as they come." His tone was tinged with unwilling respect – Weasley got his way against Hermione more often than not. Draco hadn't acquired the knack yet. "If it were you, wouldn't you want to be told?"

She tore off a strip of sellotape, getting started on the next box. Apparently, using magic would disturb the delicate balance of the electronics or something. Last week, when she had explained the process to Draco, he hadn't realised he would be drafted in as indentured labour, so he hadn't listened very carefully.

"Yes, of course I would. People always think they're being sensible when they're doing the most idiotic things, though. I'd like to think I'm not, but what do I know?" She sighed. "You have to do what you think is best, I suppose. Even if it involves the mental equivalent of banging your head against a brick wall."

"Aren't you violating the Gryffindor code or something? Do you realise you're actually passing up an opportunity to tell me what to do?"

"Don't worry, Draco." The smile softened her face, despite a score of little crinkles appearing around her eyes. A few tendrils of hair had escaped her utilitarian knot, and Draco was startled to see that she was an adult. He had known her for so long, he rarely looked at her properly, and it came as a surprise to see a nice-looking woman in place of the little girl with large front teeth he remembered. "I won't slip up the next time."

"Fine. Good. Just see to it that you don't." Draco barely knew what he was saying. Hermione smiled, so he must have pulled it off.

* * *

 **Two chapters left!**


	4. Full Circle

**Chapter 4**

 **Full Circle**

 **-oOo-**

"My friends, we are going to get rich!" Weasley spread out the latest issue of the _Prophet_ on the table, proudly pointing at its headline "Muggle Devices Take The Wizarding World By Storm". Hermione barely managed to whisk away her cup of tea before it was swept to the floor, and Draco had to sneak his hand below the paper to grab a _pain au chocolat_.

"Where d'you get that from?" Weasley asked Draco as Hermione commandeered the newspaper. Draco took a large bite from the chocolate part, waving apologetically towards his mouth as he chewed slowly.

" _'Several household names are keen users of the appliances, but they remain tightlipped about the supplier. Miss Parkinson, who recently split up from the darling of the Quidditch pages, Mr Viktor Krum, refused to answer_ _the_ _reporter when quizzed on her mysterious musical player,'_ " she read out loud.

"Let me guess, Rita Skeeter?" Draco hadn't known about Pansy, but the news did explain why she hadn't turned up for dinner last Friday night.

"Oh, yes. Listen to this: " _'In a fearless pursuit of information to keep you, my dear reader, abreast with the latest trends in the Wizarding world, this reporter managed to get access to a home featuring one of the machines. They play an amazing variety of music, rather like the Wizarding Wireless, but the choice and ability to switch between a large number of high quality channels sets it apart from everything else_ _available on the market_ _.'_ "

"It's very complimentary." Draco frowned. "Suspiciously so."

"Indeed. I didn't know Rita could write a paragraph without slipping in a snide remark about someone." Hermione looked at the waving byline with distaste.

They turned to Ron at the same time. He shrugged.

"What can I say? It took a large chunk out of the marketing budget, but I'd say it was worth it."

" _Ronald!_ " Hermione said at the same time as Draco remembered one of his failed business ventures a few years ago:

"The fucking cow! She told me she had to stick to journalistic ethics when I tried to get her to promote my racing syndicate!"

Weasley tutted. "Ethics? Rita Skeeter? Surely that should have tipped you off it was just an excuse."

"Rita may have the ethical standards of an Erumpent in heat, but that doesn't excuse your behaviour. You bribed her, Ron!" Hermione was clearly revving herself up for a lecture, but to give Weasley his fair dues, he stopped her in her tracks.

"Nonsense. There's nothing shady about sponsored content. Look here." He tapped the paper with his wand, hitting the bag with pastries hiding underneath. While Weasley snagged a croissant, a small "S" in a circle flashed blue before fading away. "It's marked and everything. Did you really think Rita wrote all those articles about Krum's brooms out of the goodness of her heart?"

"No. I believed she wrote them because she's obsessed with celebrities," Hermione snapped, but she was sufficiently mollified to extract the bag Draco had brought and place it where everyone could see it, taking the fun out of munching pastries in front of a hungry Weasley.

"It's only visible if you know the spell, which is available on application from the editor," Weasley mumbled in Draco's ear as Hermione primly selected a scone. "You have to send your own owl, as well. No one is going to notice."

* * *

They were taking the wizarding world by storm – after weeks of patient prodding by Weasley, Rita Skeeter had finally broken the story behind FOWL and 'the unlikely partnership making their presence known in most wizarding homes, or at least in those with aspirations to follow the _zeitgeist_ '.

"You shouldn't have got her to use that word. _Zeitgeist_ is a step too far for the average British wizard."

Draco had insisted on getting a proper workshop once the revenues started coming in, complete with a dinner table for occasions like this. He had had enough of draughty warehouses for a lifetime.

"Hmm." Hermione was reading the newspaper on the far side of the table, surrounded by piles of books for her current project. Draco had glanced at them, but titles like _How To Build A Gaming PC: A Beginner's Guide_ had not captured his attention. They sounded both Muggle and difficult; an off-putting combination at the best of times.

This wasn't a particularly great time; Hermione had cancelled their standing arrangement for Friday night two weeks in a row, and she had only turned up this afternoon because Draco had sent her an owl threatening to bring Mr Weasley instead.

The thought of letting the man loose in her carefully organised workspace had guaranteed the appearance of a flustered Hermione, clutching her copy of their original agreement where it was specified that Weasley Senior was not to be brought anywhere within a mile of their testing facility. Desperate times called for desperate measures – Draco was beginning to get the impression his comfortably arranged existence was slipping.

He hadn't been able to put his finger on the precise reason, but as he noticed the fine dust gathering on Hermione's workbench (he should really bring the house-elves in here more often, now that they were paid and all) it finally dawned on him it had something to do with the witch sitting opposite.

The long pale fingers of December sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds Draco had chosen over the more utilitarian steel favoured by Hermione, turning her hair into a golden halo, and suddenly, Draco realised he was the biggest idiot in Britain. Despite his larger-than-average intelligence, he seemed to possess a remarkable talent for screwing things up (he would blame his Black blood, but that would let his father off the hook).

He had done it again – at least there wasn't a compulsory tattoo this time.

Draco had barely taken stock of his calamity (why was Hermione allowed to to walk around making everyone believe she was a walking textbook until it was too late?) when the next blow struck.

"There's a photo of you and Viktor Krum here," Draco found himself saying, before his brain had made contact with his mouth. Everything was a bit numb at the moment, so that was probably why his reflexes were so slow. Severus Snape was probably turning in his grave.

"Yes. They do that a lot, take photos of people and put them in the paper. You were in one with Pansy Parkinson yesterday, if I recall correctly."

"I see Pansy at least every week. As far as I'm aware, you haven't met Krum since we were pimply-faced teenagers." Somehow, he managed not to sound accusatory, although Merlin knew what he thought he was accusing her of.

Hermione didn't even look up. "I wasn't pimply-faced, thank you very much. I ran into Viktor in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago, and we went for coffee."

"This photo was taken in Hogsmeade." Draco could just make out the sign of the Three Broomsticks in the background.

"I didn't say anything about it being the last time I saw him, did I? One thing led to another, etc., etc. Why do you care, anyway?"

"I like to keep track of my business partners." Draco winced inwards, but Hermione didn't take him to task for his less than compelling reason.

"I'm sure you do," she said absently, leafing through the weekly business supplement. "Did you see the government – the Muggle one – is raising the VAT rate again? I think we need to set up that limited company so we can reclaim some of it, at least."

Sometimes, Draco agreed with Weasley: Hermione could be the most infuriating person he had ever met. Weasley was married, presumably happily, to some Creevey or other, but at one time he must have felt exactly like Draco did about Hermione in a very different way.

It was a sobering thought.

* * *

That was how he had got here, more or less. Plus this morning's altercation, of course – in retrospect, Draco had been rather foolish when he had decided to drop into Hermione's office at the Ministry to talk to her. If it hadn't been for Weasley's unexpected appearance, he would have been burnt to a crisp by now. Hermione Granger did not like being told what to do; she had made that quite clear.

"Do you have to crouch like that?" he asked Weasley. "The view from the back would offend the sensibilities of a warlock."

"I'm so sorry my attempts at saving your arse are – what did you say, again?"

"It doesn't matter." Draco tried to stride purposefully, but unfortunately, Hermione's current position in the Ministry's hierarchy only stretched to enough legroom to fit two steps before he had to turn around again.

"Too poncy to repeat, eh?" Blue sparks flew from Weasley's wand, and he looked at it with mild surprise. "She must be doing something from the outside – I didn't know there was a counter-curse to Holohan's Defence."

"Who would have thought Granger would outperform you?" If all he could do to distract himself was to be spiteful, Draco was determined to give it all he had.

"That's an interesting thing for you to say," Weasley said mildly.

"I would say the same, but I so dislike lying." He got a sharp glance in return, but Weasley didn't rise to the bait.

"You know, Hermione has actually outgrown one of the things you used to have in common."

"And what would that be? A tendency to hex people for making stupid comments?"

"She's realised that just because she is smarter than average, it doesn't mean other people don't have a brain in their heads."

"If you would kindly translate that from Weasley-speak, I'll pretend I'm still interested in this conversation." There had to be something Draco could do, instead of watching Weasley. Floo for help? He stretched his hand towards the fireplace, but hit the wards instead and bounced back.

"You obviously fancy her. For you to tell her something that caused a reaction like this –" Weasley made a gesture encompassing his own missing eyebrows and Draco's wandless state. As if someone were listening, another volley of spells hit the door from outside. Weasley's wards held, but Draco couldn't help noticing him sagging slightly in relief when the attack ceased.

"As I was saying: you must have told her something pretty hair-raising to make her this angry. What did you say, exactly?"

"None of your business." Draco couldn't remember exactly, not word for word, but he remembered the gist of it, all right.

"Seeing as I'm the only person who may be able to get us both out of here in one piece, I rather think it is." Weasley's eyes were as blue and gullible as they had been when he was eleven years old, but Draco had learnt to spot the signs he intended to be as stubborn as a pig.

They found themselves at an impasse.

* * *

"Morning, Draco." Hermione had been surrounded by no less than three cups of tea, and Draco would have bet his last Galleon she hadn't finished any of them. One of her terrifying characteristics was single-mindedness: when she worked, that was all she did. No bumming off for a cup of coffee and a fag, or some last-minute tidying to avoid a difficult task. Not for Hermione.

Recently, Draco had started wondering what else might benefit from her undivided attention; he had spent several business meetings daydreaming about the possibilities. Fortunately, he happened to be rather skilled at multi-tasking, or they would have been running the risk of getting a nasty surprise when the next marketing campaign for FOWL was launched.

"Good morning. What's this morning's emergency, then – are the Goblins abandoning the gold standard?"

"No one told me. If that's the case, perhaps you'd better speak to Bletchley." She had already returned to her notes, highlighting something with a frown.

"I don't think so. A twenty-minute long lecture on Goblin customs wasn't on my schedule this morning." Draco had been caught by Bletchley before – the man could bore on for Britain.

"Then what is? Or is this a social call? You do realise I'm supposed to be working here, not just entertaining my friends."

"I just wanted a quick word in your ear." Draco's throat had suddenly felt dry.

"I see. Why don't you go ahead, and then we can both get on with our days? I'd really like to get out of the office before nine tonight, and I'm already behind."

"I see," Draco had repeated. He had had no idea how to continue, despite having rehearsed the conversation several times in his head. The problem was that the Hermione in his head had said exactly what he wanted her to say, while the real one had stubbornly refused to stick to the script.

"The department meeting starts in half an hour," she had informed him.

"I don't think you should be seeing Krum," Draco had blurted out. Script Draco had slapped his forehead, but it was too late.

"I'm sorry?"

"He's not a – I just don't think you're his type."

"Fortunately, your opinion doesn't matter, seeing as you're not one of the people in this relationship." The syllables had been clipped, as if Hermione had been hanging on to her temper with effort.

"What? Are you actually with him now, officially?" It had been worse than Draco had thought. "Have you slept with him yet?"

The burst of spontaneous magic had knocked him backwards (that was when his eyebrows had been zinged off), out to the anteroom where Bletchley and other associated underlings had been working away. They had barely had time to look up from their desks before Hermione had followed, pointing her trembling wand straight at Draco.

"If you have anything to say for yourself before I hex you, now is the time."

The words had tripped over his tongue in their haste to get out. "You're Muggle-born, that's the difference between you and Pansy. There's no way he really wants to be with you, you must –" The rest of his thoughtful, well-balanced advice had been drowned out by a threatening volley of thunder. The weather in the charmed windows had been a perfectly pleasant October afternoon – the storm heading Draco's way had been entirely magical in nature, and confined to a suddenly very small room.

Most of the employees had been hiding under their desks, Draco had noticed, when the door to the corridor had opened.

"Oi, what's going on here?" Weasley. The only thing that could have made the situation any worse.

"Piss off, Weasley." Worryingly, Draco had seemed to have absolutely no control over what had been coming out of his mouth.

Weasley had ignored him. "You lot, get out." He had nodded at Bletchley and his colleagues, who had scurried out. "Now then, what seems to be the matter?"

Rather than calming down, Hermione's wrath seemed to have simmered to new heights during the interruption.

"I suggest you move out of the way, Ron. Ferret-boy and I have some unfinished business." She had raised her wand and Draco had grappled for his, only to have it knocked out of his hand as Weasley had grabbed him around the waist and shoved him into Hermione's office, sealing the door behind them.

There they were then, stuck together as Hermione had done her best to open the door.

* * *

 **The last chapter will be published next Saturday - come back then to find out if Ron can find a way out, or if they're doomed to stay in Hermione's office forever...  
**


	5. Just Tell The Truth, Said No Slytherin

**Chapter 5**

 **Just Tell The Truth, Said No Slytherin Ever**

 **-oOo-**

"You didn't actually tell her _why_ she shouldn't be seeing Krum?" Weasley had listened to Draco's sorry tale in surprisingly sympathetic silence, but apparently, he could contain himself no longer.

"I never got to that part."

"It might have gone better if you'd started with that bit, mate. Do you realise you made it sound like you don't think she's good enough for Krum because she's Muggle-born?"

Draco let his head drop into his hands. "Oh, _fuck_." Suddenly, he feared Hermione might actually kill him – she had been remarkably constrained so far, all things considered.

"That would be a fair summary of the situation, yeah." Weasley appeared surprisingly downbeat for someone only tangentially connected to the epic fuck-up Draco's life had become. All he needed to do was to stand out of the crossfire – once Hermione had reduced Draco to a pile of ashes, he could brush the dust off his manky robes and go about his business.

Instead, he had whisked Draco into relative safety, and somehow got the full story out of him (a feat his own mother wouldn't have achieved, even after a double helping of guilt). Surely he couldn't... No, surely not?

Draco's suspicious scrutiny of Weasley yielded inconclusive results, until the subject spoke.

"Given that you've fucked things up well beyond your usual standards, this will take a bit of tact to sort out. It would be helpful if you could stop staring at me while I'm trying to think. Ta ever so much."

Draco felt a lurch of panic. They were alone in a locked room, and Draco didn't have his wand. There was no telling what Weasley might do if he were faced with the tempting prospect of all his dreams coming true at once.

"Do you –" Draco's voice was almost as shrill as Hermione's when she had found out the Malfoy house-elves slept in the wine cellar. He cleared his throat and managed to hit a more normal pitch. "Do you like me looking at you?"

"I don't really care what you do, but if I had my face less full of whinging Slytherins I might be able to figure out a way to get us all out of this mess. Can you shut up now?"

Draco sat down next to the fireplace, immensely relieved. He didn't think Weasley would take rejection well, so it was just as well he hadn't fallen madly in love with Draco. Once that hideous prospect no longer loomed in his mind, he could get back to mulling over how he probably had blown all his chances of ever having a civilised conversation with Hermione again.

As for her listening to his warning about Krum, he may as well resign himself to seeing them permanently plastered across the society pages of the _Prophet._

That was what Krum wanted from Hermione, of course – instant access to the British wizarding world. Pansy's connections paled in comparison to Hermione's. Draco had been so horrified at the prospect of Hermione being exposed to any underhanded curses Krum had picked up at Durmstrang that he had lost his head and failed to see the bigger picture.

"Weasley, you have to tell Hermione that Krum can't be trusted –"

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy – did you ever manage to go just five minutes without talking?" Weasley stood up, stretching his ungainly limbs until Draco was effectively caught between his hand, sized like a spade, and Hermione's desk. "The only thing we can do –"

"All right in there, Ron? Is the ferret still breathing?" Trust Potter to take any chance to show off and dispatch his Patronus in the middle of the Ministry. Draco had to admit it was rather impressive up close – the silvery light seemed too bright to be contained in one room.

Weasley closed his eyes briefly, and then a Jack Russell terrier poured out of his wand and landed on the floor, looking up at the stag. They set off at the same time, bursting through the sealed door, as if they were having a race.

Draco felt strangely bereft in the dim light left behind.

"Now, what?" The door swung open as soon as he had spoken. "Did you do that?" He looked suspiciously at Weasley, who still didn't look smart enough to have mastered wordless magic.

"Does it matter? Harry has things covered, let's get out of here." For a second, there was a look of the eager terrier about Weasley.

"You first." Malfoys hadn't got to where they were today by being the first to enter the fray, that much his father had taught him.

When they emerged, an eerie silence hung in the air. Draco was poised to dive for cover at the first sign of hostilities resuming, but then he spotted Potter and Hermione. She looked dreadful: her eyes were puffy and red, and the sleeve of her robes was wet. Her fingers were wrapped around her wand so hard the knuckles were turning white, but she didn't move.

Draco couldn't help noticing she didn't look at him; her eyes just seemed to slip over him before landing on the vastly more interesting furniture.

"Hi Harry. Thanks for stopping by." Weasley stuck his wand in his pocket again, showing unwarranted faith in the current ceasefire.

"Hi Ron. Malfoy." Potter nodded, and Draco gave a very quick nod in return, in acknowledgement of having saved him from grievous bodily harm. No doubt, it would give Wonder Boy another reason to feel smug.

"What a happy reunion. Can we go home now?" Hermione's voice was gravelly, and she still wasn't looking at anyone in particular.

"No," Weasley and Potter said at the same time.

"Not until the Wandless Wonder here explains a thing or two. Like the reason he didn't want you to go out with Krum." Trust Weasley to stick his big nose into other people's business. "No need to look at me like that. I got you a chance to say what you want without getting cursed to kingdom come, didn't I?"

Draco was damned if he was going to say thank you, even though it was merited. He turned to Hermione instead, who still wasn't looking at him.

"The only reason I told you that you shouldn't be with Krum is that he's not to be trusted. Nothing else. I don't give a fuck about blood anymore, but I've reason to believe he does. When he was seeing Pansy –"

"Do you really think I believe that? Really, Malfoy?" She hadn't called him Malfoy since he had come to see her about Pansy, when she had told him that she would want her friends to tell her things she didn't want to know.

He may never have a chance to become anything more, but Draco had believed they were friends at least, and although he possibly had gone about it a bit cack-handedly (thank you, Weasley, for sharing your wisdom), at least he had had good intentions.

Suddenly, he was as angry as Hermione had been earlier. "What the fuck do you want me to say, then? That Krum is a nasty piece of work and you'd be better off with me, if you must choose an ex-Death Eater – at least I actually love you! That would go down well."

For once in her life, Hermione was speechless. She opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Wow." Weasley, never one to stay out of other people's conversation, butted in instead. "You actually meant that, didn't you?"

Draco deeply regretted not putting in the legwork to become an Animagus when he had been under house arrest after the war. Even if he became a ferret, it would have been preferable to staying in this room, having just poured his heart out in front of _Potter_.

"Yes." There was no point in lying. Even Severus Snape would have thrown in the towel at this stage.

Potter whistled. Hermione remained silent. Draco desperately tried to summon his wand with wordless magic so he could get the hell out of here, but the stupid wanker of a stick didn't budge. Perhaps it was stuck up Potter's arse.

"Ron, while I appreciate your help, there are some occasions it would be better if you just buggered off." Hermione had found her tongue.

"Lover boy here lost his wand, remember? You'd better not curse an unarmed man." Weasley kicked the rubble where Bletchley's desk had been. "I thought I saw it over here."

"Found it!" Potter triumphantly held up the wand, and Draco snatched it back.

"There had better not be any crap about Elder wands this time, Potter." His hand was shaking a little, but it felt good to hold his wand again.

"A simple thank you would suffice. Come on, Ron, let's push off." Potter touched Hermione's cheek briefly before heading towards the door, Weasley following closely behind.

He turned his ginger head over his shoulder just before stepping out into the corridor. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Intelligent conversation is out, then," Draco said. The relief of getting his wand back had worn off already, and he still hadn't looked directly at Hermione since the most severe violation of the Slytherin code since Pansy had declared that she did in fact loathe snakes.

However, Hermione seemed to have been staring at him ever since, if the snatches he had gleaned from the corner of his eyes were anything to go by.

Draco hated apologising as much as he hated being wrong, but there was nothing for it. Not if he wanted to get out of there alive, anyway.

"Look here, I'm sorry I went about it arseways. All I wanted to do was to warn you about Krum. You did say you'd want to be told, that time I asked you about Pansy..."

"Draco, I don't give a fuck about Krum or Pansy or Ron, or anybody else at the moment." The shock of Granger the Perfect swearing made him look at her properly, and then he couldn't look away. Hermione seemed to be lit from within, her eyes shining with hope and joy and something else he didn't recognise. During her attack on her own office, her hair had escaped its confinements, and now it was standing on end, sparkling with magic.

He couldn't imagine a witch more beautiful than Hermione right in this moment.

"Did you mean what you said, that you're in love with me?"

Somehow, Draco's slip of the tongue may end up making him happier than in his wildest dreams. Faced with those odds, he decided to risk getting the remainder of his eyebrows cursed off. "Yes. Do you mind? I didn't exactly mean to."

He had expected a response, perhaps a hex; he got his arms full of Hermione instead, a reassuringly solid confirmation that his feelings may be returned where words wouldn't have been enough. Of course, this being Hermione, he got words as well.

"I was so cross with myself, I knew you'd changed, but I thought you were in love with Pansy –"

"Pansy? You really aren't as smart as you're cracked up to be, are you?" That got him another kiss – this may well be the best thing that had ever happened to Draco. Still, a sensible man would check first, especially given Krum's propensity for offensive magic. "You don't care about Krum, then?"

"I do know when someone is trying to use my connections, Draco. It wasn't exactly the first time. Then I thought you may be jealous, so I didn't bother turning him down." She took in the charred remains of the outer office, and the blackened door to her domains. "It worked better than you warning me, anyway."

"That's all your doing – I didn't even have a bloody wand!"

"Be that as it may, I think we should cut our losses before someone comes to investigate where the smoke is coming from. I am supposed to be working here, you know." Hermione made a token effort to wriggle out of his arms, but Draco wouldn't have any of that.

"One day off sick won't kill you. Come with me." She was just the right size up close – he could bury his chin in her curls, pulling in deep wafts of the scent of her hair. Just like he belonged there.

"I can't – what will my boss say?" Hermione's mouth was drooping slightly, and Draco considered taking his chances and Apparating them both away, when a purple paper airplane appeared out of the fireplace. It headed for Hermione, who unfolded it. Draco read over her shoulder:

 _Don't worry about the mess, I'll take care of it. Unfortunately, an emergency_ _office_ _evacuation drill went out of control and your office is quarantined for the day. You'll have to come back tomorrow, though – Bletchley says the department meeting has been rescheduled._

 _Love, Harry_

"I really have the best friends," Hermione said in an unsteady voice.

"Yes." Weasley and Potter did some things (other than defeating Dark Lords) very well, despite being intellectually deficient. "So where are we going?" The Manor was probably not an ideal place for their first date.

"Do you trust me?" Hermione was bubbling with joy again, the same exhilaration Draco could feel bursting from his veins.

"What sort of question is that?" Draco asked, and Hermione wilted slightly. "I'd trust you with my life, surely you must know that?"

"Then hold on tight!"

* * *

They almost let go as they hit the grass with a stumble, but Hermione recovered and Draco clung on to steady himself. The wind hit him then: a lungful of salt and specks of seawater gave him some clue to their whereabouts, although the specific location remained unclear.

"Where are we?"

"On top of the world – I thought it seemed appropriate." Hermione pulled him into the relative calm out of the wind, between the stone pillars Draco just noticed. They were on top of a grassy hill overlooking the sea, only green and blue and grey as far as he could see. It was glorious.

"We appear to be alone."

"Yes, I thought that seemed appropriate, too." Her smile was delicious, and Draco remembered that Hermione was good at absolutely everything. He could only hope he measured up.

 **THE END**


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